


Southern Living

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Bayou, Boys In Love, Cajuns, Canon Era, Happy Ending, Louisiana, M/M, Moving In Together, Post-War, Returning Home, Slash, swamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 02:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12571224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: When he moved from the southside of Philly to a small town in Louisiana, Babe Heffron knew his life would be different--but he didn't know it would be this different. Between the heat, the hurricanes, and the heaps of mosquitoes, Babe didn't know how the hell he was going to survive in Cajun Country.OR: “M'dying, Gene,” he wailed. “How the fuck do you live like this?”The Cajun gave a simple shrug, one that said he clearly thought Babe was overreacting. “You get use' to it.”





	Southern Living

**Author's Note:**

> Having moved from Georgia to Louisiana this summer, I couldn't help but wonder how Babe would handle life among the ragin' cajuns in this humid, swampy world. 
> 
> Once again, no disrespect is meant for the genuine heroes of Easy Company, and I apologize for the sloppy beta'ing!
> 
> Enjoy, y'all!

After the war when he moved from the southside of Philly to a small town outside of Lafayette, Louisiana, Babe Heffron knew his life would be different. He was fully aware that changes would have to be made, that certain habits or facets of his lifestyle would need to be adjusted, but he had no idea that in order to survive in the swamp, Babe was going to have to receive a whole new education.

Three short months. That's all it took for Babe to become an expert on life in Bayou Chene.

He could tell anyone about the little field crickets that would flee the humid, sticky Louisiana heat and take refuge inside his and Gene's home—no matter the efforts taken to prevent otherwise—their tiny, black bodies found in just about every corner and crevice of the shotgun shack. He would add a tidbit about how the male field crickets would chirp at all hours of the night, a southern lullaby, one which he had become accustomed to after only four nights in the swamp. Then, he would move on to bitching about how the crickets were annoying, but _man,_ the swarms of mosquitoes were murder. The little devils were literally eating him alive! He was constantly covered in so many bug bites that it looked like he had the chicken pox.

Of course, there were also the cicadas that clung to the railing of their front porch, the flies that buzzed in and out of the kitchen all day, the roaches that scurried across the floorboards at night, the moths that had built a nest in the top of their shower—and a whole other host of Louisiana's creepy crawlers.

Babe could also talk about the weather—a lot. He would mention how the southern part of the Pelican State was, in some areas, as much as twenty feetbelow sea level and that meant something. It meant _flooding._ He could entertain his buddies back home for hours talking on the phone about how often he and Gene had to lug out the sand bags from the back shed to barricade the front and back doors of their home from the rising waters coming off of the bayou, an activity which they seemed to do damn near once a month. He'd also bitch and whine and complain about the fact that no one had warned him that hurricane season lasted so damn long.

“June to November, huh? That's six months, Gene. That's _half_ the year! We shouldn't be living in a house, we should be living on a boat!”

And, of course, Babe couldn't talk about the weather without mentioning the rain and its unpredictability. No one could say when the rain would come, or for how long it would fall, or how heavy or light the rain would drop—no one. Not the voodoo priestess, not the little old man who owned the general store seven miles down the dirt road that ran down behind their house, not the preacher at the local church, not the broadcaster on the radio, not Gene, and _certainly,_ not Babe. The rain was an unfathomable force in the swamp. The only thing that could be said for certain about the rain was that—without fail—it _would_ rain at least once every single day until Christmas.

But the rain was not so awful. It was merely an inconvenience at best, and learning to deal with its constant presence was no different than learning how to live with the snow in Philadelphia. No, what really drove Babe insane about the swamp was the heat.

The sun never seemed to set on the bayou. Those first few weeks full of long summer days had been some of the longest in his life, the heat soaking into his every pore and weighing him down more than any physical burden ever had. He didn't know how Gene had managed it his whole life, tried to imagine how much Gene had truly suffered in Bastogne, knowing only _this_ unbearable, bone-deep warmth and then being forced to endure so many long nights of bone-deep frost and snow and cold. It must have been hell for the Cajun.

And more so than the woods of Bastogne, the heat of the swamp was hell for Babe.

“M'dying, Gene,” he wailed, limbs jelly as he sprawled beneath the lazy box fan that sat propped up against their kitchen window, slowly dragging in the humid, hot air from outside and looping it around in a sad attempt to cool their home. “How the fuck do you live like this?”

Gene smirked at his moitié—his other, better half. The Cajun gave a simple shrug, one that said he clearly thought Babe was overreacting. “You get use' to it.”

“Ha!” Babe barked. “Not likely.” He was literally sweating buckets over here, the sticky saltwater droplets pooling on the collar of his shirt and under his arms and dripping to the wood-paneled floor below. He hefted up his glistening arms as evidence, but Gene only laughed and went back to prepping the fish for that night's supper.

Although the heat was exhaustive and the bugs were a nuisance, Babe could admit—late in the evenings, tucked away in a rocking chair on their front porch, sipping a beer while watching frogs and flies skim across the top of the water where the bayou flowed not twenty feet from their home—that it wasn't _all_ bad in the swamp.

Sometimes, Babe could even convince himself that he _liked_ it out there among the 'gators and Spanish moss.

The music of the bayou was a time and a half. Babe had never heard anything like the thrilling sounds of a blaring trumpet and the zinging of a spoon against a ribbed metal washboard. Had never danced with a girl to the lively tunes of a sweet harmonica paired with a singing fiddle. The music altogether was relatively harsh, but it had an infectious beat when played loudly—unapologetically—late at night around a bonfire, while women and men danced, children chased raccoons and squirrels, and young couples laughed and flirted. Babe couldn't help but tap his foot along with the beat whenever he heard a ditty or two, and he was pleasantly surprised to discover that the former medic, one Mr. Eugene Roe, could not only play the banjo and the harmonica, but could also croon his heart out in a rough, soulful timbre.

There were other things, too, that made life in the humid bowels of Louisiana tolerable. The food was to die for. Honestly—and he would never admit this to his ma—but Cajun cooking was probably the best damn grub he'd ever had the pleasure of eating. The gumbo, the fried okra and catfish, the jumbalaya, the crawfish boiled up with corn and potatoes, the beignets and chicory coffee, the shrimp po'boys, the turtle soup... At every damn meal, they ate like it was Thanksgiving, and after years of surviving on rations and Joe Dominguez's beans, Babe couldn't help but fall in love with every bite.

“I swear to God, Gene, if I didn't already love ya, this would'a done it. Holy fuck, I ain't eva' tasted food this good,” Babe mumbled through a mouthful of cornbread and collard greens, a thick, sticky cut of honey ham between his fingers. Gene leaned against the kitchen counter, the skillet in hand as the Cajun helped himself to a few bites of fresh, warm cornbread, “Eat up, Heffron.”

The townsfolk weren't so bad, either. There were the Bienemys, a young black family that lived in the next parish. The father, Alphonse, worked construction with Gene, and the mother, Delphine, helped Gene's grandmother in her herb shop. They were good people—and fun. More than a few times Alphonse had joined him and Gene for a beer after work, and sweet Delphine had nearly broken her ankle trying to teach Babe to dance. But somethings only the Lord can change.

There was also Ellie May, a war widow who lived down the bayou with her dog, a beautiful brown and white mutt named Duke. The pup was a mix between a German Shepard and a Labrador Retriever, and it always had a wagging tail and chipper bark for Babe. Ellie May would walk Duke past his and Gene's place every morning and evening, occasionally stopping in for a glass of sweet tea or a Coke, and like many of the others in town, Ellie May never had a word to say about the two war veterans who decided to shack up together without a woman in sight.

Ellie May was a sweetheart, the little sister Babe never knew he wanted. She gave Babe someone to fuss over while Gene was fussing over him.

“Okay, but why does she walk barefoot?” Babe asked one night. He'd been thinking about it long and hard for a few weeks now. Every time he saw Ellie May walking along that damn dirt road, Duke trailing happily behind her, Babe's own feet ached. He thought about the blisters and sores he incurred on that hellish march across Europe, and damn near went and bought the widow a pair of shoes. He just knew she must be stepping on every pebble from there to the general store.

Speaking of the general store, Babe practically loved the old man that owned and operated it. A veteran of the Great War, Charles Beauregard was about three feet tall and ten feet wide—and hell if that man didn't know how to laugh. He'd taken one look at Babe fresh off of the Greyhound from Philly, gave a wily grin, and snickered, “Boy, you sho' gone fry up here. Betta' get you some coveralls, son, befo' yo' skin's as red as your hair.”

Flustered and exhausted from the trip, Babe had only gaped and glanced around for Gene, causing the old man to cackle and spit out a lip's worth of chewing tobacco. “Yup. You gone burn _good_. Best get you a hat while you at it.”

Babe did his damnedest to steer clear of old man Beauregard for the first several weeks he was in town. It wasn't until Gene realized that Babe was actively avoiding the store owner that things were resolved. One bonfire and a pot of gumbo later, Beauregard was teaching Babe more efficient ways to roll his cigarettes and giving him tips on how to distill his own whiskey.

“In a bathtub, really?”

Beauregard gave a sharp nod. “Sho' enough.”

But more than anything—more than the sunshine, the Cajun cuisine, the folksy music, the kind neighbors—, Babe loved having a home with Gene. He loved waking up in the morning before Gene and catching the Cajun's last few peaceful moments of rest, the features of his delicate face turned boyish in sleep. He loved being able to laugh and joke with Gene—there were few things as rewarding in life as earning a smile from the dark-haired man who too often was pensive and quiet. And Babe's days were truly made when he could surprise a genuine laugh from the Louisiana native.

Babe loved being able to reach out and just _touch_. Not aggressively. Not sexually. Just a hand on a shoulder or fingertips across the back of hand—just the lightest, most casual of touches to reassure himself that Gene really was alive and well and _there._ That Gene was safe (the war a distant, far away place; over and done, but never forgotten).

Of course, some nights—many nights— _most_ nights—those common, casual touches turned into something more, something spurned by lust and desire and desperate, desperate _need._ Those nights when kisses became something he would happily drown in, when the air exchanged in quick, frantic breaths became his very source of life. When hands grasped and fingers clasped and every inch of his skin somehow lost itself, mixing and molding with Gene's. On those nights, things sometimes moved so fast that it was over before Babe realized it was even started and all he could do was collapse and pant and feel every bit of himself come alive with joy and love.

And it was no secret why. There were few things in life—and none that came to mind readily—better than making love to Gene on the squeaky, flimsy mattress in their too-hot bedroom, the moonlight dancing across his lover's pale skin, goosebumps rising on his arms and legs as Gene's warm breath panted against his neck as Gene murmured, “Love ya, ma moitié.”

Those nights were what made Babe's life in the swamp matter. More than any job or friendship or small comfort that he had managed to find among the nutgrass, pelicans, and live oak trees, Eugene Roe kept Babe Heffron's heart pumping full of life.

And for that, Babe would find a way to exist in the swamp that was Bayou Chene—for the rest of his natural-born life.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
